


Fair Gendry & Ser Arya the Gallant

by macneiceisms



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Forge Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 21:22:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macneiceisms/pseuds/macneiceisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shameless pwp in  the forge, with first-times. Mostly fluffy. For Dee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fair Gendry & Ser Arya the Gallant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shadowdust258](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowdust258/gifts).



“Gendry,” she whispered, her breath hot against his ear as she grazed her teeth along the stubble at his jaw, sharp pearls. Her hands were lost in the front of his leather jerkin, gripping and tugging alike, as if she wasn’t sure if she wanted to just hold onto him or tear at the ties of his clothing.

He tangled his hand in her hair, tumbled out of its braid and woven through his calloused fingers. He tugged at it and met her swollen lips again for a kiss, softer than before. _She’s a lady. She deserves better than some bastard._ She let out a gasp as he kissed behind her ear and traced the line of an old scar down to the hollow of her throat with his teeth. _What would her brothers say if they knew you put your dirty blacksmith’s hands on their sister?_ Kisses were not just kisses, not between a highborn lady and bastard knight.

She reached up to kiss him again, moving her hand to cup his cheek and bring his face to meet hers, but Gendry pulled out of her grasp. He could have run himself through with a dagger at how quickly her dark and hooded eyes cleared into confused anger.

“What? What is it?” she said, accusation on her tongue. He wanted to kiss away the venom, have her smile again, but her smiles had never been easy. She chewed her lip.

“Arya…we can’t,” he whispered, his hand still lingering on the back of her neck so he slid it along her shoulder to rest on her arm, unwilling to pull away from her just yet. _It’s wrong. It’s wrong to want her._ She jerked away from his touch, but she was beautiful when she was angry. The light from the forge lit her silhouette a molten gold, a crown of tangled hair upon her head and a ring of light outside the sharp lines of her shoulders, her hips, and the wiry line of her legs from beneath her tunic. The dagger at her hip glinted, illuminating the enameled white and red branches of the Weirwood curling around the hilt; proof that no one could make her do something she didn’t want; proof that he gave her only the best he made.

“You’re being stupid,” she said.

 _I know,_ he wanted to say. He had let her go once, twice, a third time. He had let her go so many times that he didn’t know if he had enough of a heart left to love her, so chewed up were the remnants of him every time she left. His hands felt clumsy again, his frame too tall, his head too stupid, like it always did around her, except now he knew why he had dropped his hammer on his foot and why he had made her so angry after putting his foot in his mouth for the hundredth time that week. _As m’lady commands._

Even he had not realized that all that time, he was saying something else entirely.

“M’lady, this cannot be what you want.”

But he knew it was a hollow sentiment; no one could make Arya Stark do something she did not want.

“This? You mean you. You think I cannot want you?” she said, and the anger was still there when she looked him in the eye, “Or perhaps it’s that you don’t want me, not truly. Say it’s true and I’ll leave and never bother you again.”

“Arya…” began Gendry, stepping towards her. _Please don’t let her step away._ She didn’t step back, but she did turn her face away. She was chewing her lip again, but she wouldn’t look at him, and her voice was cold and resigned. Arya had kissed him recklessly and impulsively, but she had meant it.

“I shouldn’t have expected you to feel the same way about some little girl you knew too many years ago to matter, a girl that came back…came back a killer and a monster.”

He wanted to get the words out, but they sat in his throat, heavy and dry. How could he say what was in his heart without it coming out rusted and ugly after having been kept buried for so long? He would lose her again. _I have no home without you; I came here for you._

“If you are a monster, then I am as well.”

“Why are you being stupid?”

He couldn’t look at her eyes, kinder than he had ever seen them, sadder too. _What do you want from me, Arya?_ He swallowed and took her hands gently in his, tracing the white scars idly with his calloused and blackened hands. How her Septa could have told her all those years ago that she had the hands of a blacksmith, he would never know. Lightly freckled, with calluses from her sword along her left palm, he traced the lines of her hand, remembering when they were lighter, softer, and when his were not quite so black. He frowned, and he knew his face was pinching in the way that usually made her laugh.

“Because I love you,” he whispered, and his throat felt raw all of a sudden. He wondered if the words had left at all. “I always have, you stupid girl.”

Her hands were gone, and he felt cold again. Cold and clumsy. But they had only left to wind through the fabric of his tunic, her thin fingers gripping hard. He felt the rough skin of her left hand on the stubble of his cheek.

“I thought you didn’t want me.”

“Then you’re more of an idiot than I thought.”

She swatted at his shoulder and he laughed, pulling her to his chest and holding her there tightly. Perhaps for other men it would be backwards, but he had always felt safer around her.

“I’ll never marry some perfumed lord,” she whispered in his tunic, “It doesn’t matter to me what my brothers think, nor Sansa. Sansa will understand.”

“Do I have a say in this?”

“No” she laughed into the wool of his tunic.

He ran his fingers through her tousled brown hair and smiled. “I think I’ve gotten myself stuck with you for life.”

Her kiss was hard and hot, and she was as determined as he was to be devoured. She nipped his bottom lip lightly and with a sigh he opened his mouth and felt her tongue trace his. Her hands had gotten lost in his shaggy hair.

He pulled away, but gave her one light kiss before grabbing her by the back of her thighs and lifting her up and walking her to the small cot piled with blankets and furs in the back room of the forge. Her skin was soft but underneath the muscle was as lean and wiry as she was, her legs a vice about his hips. He set her down a little too roughly and her hair splayed out on the silver fox fur blanket. She chewed her lip before smiling up at him, and he swore it was a shy smile. Arya was beautiful, like the Wolfswood in the middle of winter, when the wind howled through the trees, like the mountains in the west.

“Are you going to blink at me stupidly forever?”

“I think I’d like to,” he said seriously, and it made her laugh. He wasn’t surprised when she came up to wrap her arms about his neck and pull him down upon her. The dip of her neck smelled of lye soap and pine, and he kissed her there, his nose buried in her hair. She gasped and laughed and wriggled under him, her fingers pressing into his back. He licked a line from her collarbone to neck, bit her gently where the pulse beat quickly under skin, and she replied with a sharp groan, her nails biting into his back through the wool, and her legs about his waist. Their grip was hard, the  hilt of her knife digging into his side, and she when rolled her hips, rubbing herself against his cock, he felt himself shudder from groin to shoulder and cursed into her hair.

Her smile was a vixen’s smile, all pointed canines and red lips as her little hands slunk down his back to pull up his tunic, and soon he was bare-chested in front of her. Laughing, coy and hungry, her big sharp eyes watched Gendry as he rolled off her, sat up, placed her into his lap, and with one hand just above her arse, he deftly unlaced the back of her tunic.

“I can’t even get those undone myself,” she laughed. The laces unwound slowly under his sure fingers, though they snagged on his calluses every so often. Beneath the tunic he felt a soft wool shift and a boned bodice. The tunic fell away to the floor and Arya shook her head, “Sansa will kill me to see that dirty, she worked so long on it.”

“What about this?” Gendry asked, tugging at the bodice that laced in her breasts and stomach. He didn’t touch the swordbelt low on her hips.

“Oh, that’s very important,” she japed, and pulled at the knot in the back herself. He helped her loosen the laces, which took some time. “They’ll be all black from your hands, and then everyone will know.”

His hands stilled and he felt his stomach tighten, though not from the warmth of her thighs against his. Arya would probably laugh at him and call him silly, so he went back to unlacing her bodice.

“Gendry.” She grabbed his arm. When he looked up at her, expecting mocking, there was instead a soft look on her face. She kissed him, her mouth warm and her lips soft and her hands on his shoulders, and then in his hair. Arya always surprised him somehow; he should have learned by now not to set in stone the things she did. “I’d hang my smallclothes outside your forge for all I care,” she whispered against his mouth. “Hells, I’d hang them all over Sansa’s bed. I’d sing of it at dinner feasts. I’d let them all know.” She nipped at his ear, breath hot against his neck. “I’d fuck you at the lord’s table.” She trailed her fingers down his chest, through the black hair there, and all the remaining blood in his head left south. “I’d fuck you in Sansa’s solar, all over her stupid political correspondences.” Gendry swore he felt dizzy. His laugh turned into a groan when she tossed her bodice over her head and onto the rushes to join her tunic. 

His hands wandered rather quickly up her shift to the skin of her back. It burned, soft and hot under his fingertips, and he buried his nose in the skin of her neck, kissed her collarbone down until he met the shift. “I’d fuck you in the Godswood,” she said, “And in the armory.” Gendry took the wool in his teeth and dragged it off her shoulder, Arya breathing in a gasp as gooseprickles appeared on her arm. “I’d fuck you in the glass gardens, right under the lemon tree.” Gendry laughed softly, unlaced the inlet at the front, and then found the other shoulder. It fell down her arms, baring the top of her breasts to him. Her mouth was parted when he kissed her again, his hand gentle on her face.

“I’d rather you have me right here,” he replied, moving to kiss the tops of her breasts. There was no going back; she had left no room for argument and he hadn’t wanted to argue. He pulled down the shift and let it pool around her waist. Gendry couldn’t ever imagine a life without her skin pressed against his, her arms around his shoulders and her face in his hair as he ran his teeth over her nipple, soft and pink.  He didn’t think he could live without the sound of her hitched breathing, her sighs and moans.

He laughed when she stood up from his lap, a determined look on her face. But the laugh turned into a white-hot flare of heat in his stomach when she wriggled out of her softspun breeches and then her smallclothes, leaving her naked as her name day save for the dagger in the swordbelt on her hip. Arya was all wiry, her hips and legs and arms thin, all a little bit freckled, and all peppered with occasional scars.  She had small breasts that fit in his hands, little hips that flared out, the bone sharp, long lean legs, and a thatch of dark hair between them.

“I made you that dagger,” was all he could say, his mouth parched. She stepped between his parted knees and placed his hands on her breasts. Spurred into action, Gendry kissed them, and then down her stomach. He kissed the little white scars here and there on her ribs, the raised, angry one above her hip. His hands shook slightly as he unbuckled the carved leather swordbelt and dropped it gently to the ground, and he was glad she said nothing of the trembling.

“Sansa almost had an aneurysm,” Arya smiled, all wolfish teeth. “She thought you were courting me.”

He kissed her hip and ran his hands over her back and arse, her skin softer than anything he had ever touched before. Gendry laughed as Arya’s hands found the laces of his breeches; her fingers against his stomach made his breath hitch. “I guess I was. I just didn’t know it.”

“I didn’t know either. I think we were the last people to know.” His breeches were loose about his hips and he shifted to push them down to the ground.

“Then I’m an idiot in good company,” he said, bringing her close to his lap again. Gendry ran his hands down her hips again, and brought one down across the hair between her legs. She parted her legs slightly, holding his gaze and his shoulders too, and when he ran a finger down her nub and across her lips, slick and soft, she gasped and leaned into him. He hitched her leg onto his lap, kissed her breasts again, and held her skin to skin with him.

“Ah,” she breathed, his fingers wet from her and rubbing her nub slowly. Her breaths became full bodied moans, the flush creeping down her neck and to the top of her breasts. Her braid had come half undone some time ago and it tangled about her shoulders. Gendry’s fingers were slick with her arousal down to the knuckle; the very smell of her made his whole body crackle with heat. He dipped a finger inside her, and her nails dug into his shoulders. “Yes,” she moaned. “Gods, yes,” when he added another and curled them.

“Fuck,” she cursed, and it sounded sweet from her mouth. Sweat was breaking out on his skin, and the heat of the hearth was doing nothing to help. His cock was stiff against her leg, and made him ache from his groin to his toes. There was only the smell of her, the feel of her, but he wanted more of her drunk as he was. He pulled his fingers away. She let out a huff of protest that turned to a groan as he sucked each of his own digits clean. Arya growled and kissed him deeply, all tongue and teeth, greedily taking her own taste from him; there wasn’t a thing he could do to deny her. _There never was._

But he was greedy in his own right, and he picked her up easily and laid her across his cot, her legs hanging off the side and feet planted on the ground. Arya gasped as he knelt and kissed her, her legs hooked over his shoulders. Open-mouth and hungry, he lost all abandon at the taste of her, at the shaking breaths she took, and at the sharp tug of her hand wound in his hair. A sharp keen tore from her throat when he pushed two fingers inside of her sex. She might have cursed, but her legs about his ears drowned the sound. When she came, her legs shuddered and her back arched high off the mattress, no noise from her mouth but a gasp of air.

It took her a few moments to stop shaking, but when she did, Gendry joined her on his cot. He scooped her up in his arms, brushing wisps of light brown hair from her face. Her eyes were closed, and a laugh was on her lips. It didn’t matter at all that his cock was straining painfully against his smallclothes, not when she looked so immeasurably happy.

“My education was obviously lacking,” she said with a grin, “because my septa certainly never covered that.”

He laughed into her hair, sweet smelling and a little damp from sweat. She curled into his chest and kissed him softly, then licked all the way across his mouth. Her gray eyes were full of mischief, and it made him laugh all over again.

“Are you ticklish?” she asked impishly, tracing the line on his hip that trailed down to his cock. Gendry tried his hardest not to squirm. “You’re going to get your face stuck like that one day,” Arya said. She smoothed his brow and kissed him so sweetly he didn’t realize she had unlaced his smallclothes until her hand was wrapped firmly around his cock.

“Fuck,” he breathed, and threw his head back at the sensation of her hand stroking up and down. “Fuck.”

“So you do swear,” she said, face pressed into the crook of his neck.

“Not everyone ought to have their mouth washed out with soap, and in three languages at that.” His breaths turned into a groan as he lost the warmth of her at his side, and found it again on either side of his thighs. She was astride him, and he sat up to meet her, holding her chest to his. His cock pressed against her stomach, and Gendry could feel the wetness of her cunt on his thighs. Arya kissed him and wound her fingers into his hair at the nape of his neck.

“I want this,” she whispered.

“Me too, Arya. Gods, how I want you.” He put his head into the dip of her neck, traced her back with his hands. He was struck with a moment of worry. _What of a child?_ He would be gelded then, surely. And Arya, well, he didn’t rightly know what she’d do. _Eight and ten is too young to be a mother._ “I don’t want to put a bastard in your belly, Arya.”

“I’m just going to bully Maester Samwell into giving me moon tea,” she said, the matter already decided. He shouldn’t have expected any less of her.

“You shouldn’t terrify him so much.”

She just laughed and kissed him again. “Ready?” she asked, eyes bright. Nodding, Gendry put a hand to her cunt and stroked her with his cock. The sensation made him lightheaded. A determined look crossed her face then, and she lowered herself slowly onto his cock. He held her tightly in his lap as she hissed, and bit the muscle between his neck and shoulder.

“Alright?” he asked, hands at her sides. Her cunt was a vice, hot and slick and it was all he could do to not move into her, to feel her slide up and down.

“Yes,” she said, “Just different.” Arya rocked her hips against his, slowly and tentatively at first. Then she sat up and met his eyes, moving with more confidence. He knew his face had that pinched look she liked to laugh at, but he didn’t care. There was nothing like this, nothing like her, not for him. Gendry kissed her full on the mouth, and couldn’t help but grin against her lips. He felt her laugh bubbling up from her chest, and when he pulled away to look at her face, with her red cheeks and wide, toothy smile, he thought something within him would break from joy. He kissed her lips, then her neck, and palmed her breasts. When he pinched at her nipple she let out a bark of a sigh and ground down hard on his cock. He shuddered and closed his teeth on her shoulder.

“Gods,” she swore, “Do that again.”

Gendry obliged her, raking his teeth down her throat, and soothing the red marks with his lips. Pulling out of her, he rolled her over on her back and settled between her thighs. She kissed him and nipped his bottom lip when he entered her again, sighing, arching into him and winding her legs about his waist. Gripping tightly, nails raking his back, she urged him on. There was only heat and sweat between them, and Gendry felt as if he didn’t know where he ended and she began. He bit her shoulder again and she keened. The sound sent a rush through him, and he brought a hand between them.

She climaxed a second time, and this time she nearly howled, her nails gouging his back so hard she drew blood, her body rigid beneath him and her head thrown back. It was inevitable that he followed her, spilling onto her stomach with his teeth still on her shoulder. Gendry was lightheaded and his legs shook, but he propped himself up on his arms and gently brushed her sweat soaked hair from her face. She opened her eyes when he traced the line of her cheekbone, and her eyes shone brightly in the light from the hearth. He couldn’t help but grin at her, and she laughed back, kissing him gently. He kissed her nose, and she scrunched her face and laughed.

“I ought to clean this up,” she said, shifting from under him, and he rolled off her.

“I’ve some linens,” he said.

“In the chest?”

“Aye.” Naked, she pulled a towel from the trunk at the end of his cot, the closest thing to a wardrobe his room had, and wiped the smeared line of seed from her belly. She tossed him a fresh one, and carried over his small bucket of bathing water.

“We both stink,” she said with a laugh, sitting down on the tangled blankets next to him. Gendry laughed too, and dipped the towel in the warmed water. He washed her gently, starting with her face, and then down to her neck, which was covered in red and rapidly purpling marks.

“Gods, I’m sorry…,” he said frowning, “I didn’t mean…”

“What?”

“Your neck’s all red…I don’t know how you’ll hide that.”

She touched her neck and shrugged when she didn’t feel any pain from the bruising. “My dresses have high necks, it won’t matter. If Sansa sees I’ll just tell her I laid with you. My maid won’t bother me; I leave her sweets for her nephews.”

Gendry nodded.

“And this?” he asked, touching the red half-moons he had left on her shoulder, “Is this okay?”

She smiled, and he saw again how pointed her canines were. “Better than yours,” she replied, poking a tender spot on his neck.

“Ow!”

“You big baby.”

“Har, har,” he intoned as he swatted away her hand. “Mayhaps they’ll think I was mauled by wolves again, and I won’t get gelded.”

Arya laughed and kissed him.

“No one’s gelding you. I’ll protect your virtue.”

“Ser Arya the Gallant,” he japed.

“Fair Gendry of the Hollow Hill.”

“Of Winterfell, now.”

She took the damp cloth from his hands and wiped the sweat from his brow as he had from hers. When he was clean, and their sleeping clothes were on, she laid down beside him and twined her fingers through his.

“Gendry?”

“Mm?” he mumbled sleepily against her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her skin.

“You’ll stay at Winterfell?”

“Aye, why do you ask?”

“I think I might love you.”

 

 


End file.
